Murphy's Law
by SG-girl
Summary: "Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong."
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: girl!Bass, language to be expected from police officers, established relationship (F/M/M) between Miles Matheson, Bass Monroe, and Jeremy Baker, some sexual content (although not graphic), and some graphic depictions of violence.**

* * *

**One day you will know why your training officer was so cranky**

"Christ, they're just babies." Miles Matheson didn't react when Jeremy Baker muttered in his ear, but it wasn't anything he wasn't already thinking himself, watching the latest batch of rookies fresh from the Academy file in. Charlie was at the end, fiddling with the extra-starched cuffs of her uniform, darting nervous glances around the room until her eyes finally landed on Miles. He quirked an eyebrow, silently trying to convey the message to quit squirming like a worm on a hook and her fingers dropped away from the cuff like they'd been burned, a flush creeping across her cheeks.

Jeremy slouched against the wall beside Miles, aviators pulled close to his face to hide a raging hangover, acknowledging Charlie with a tilt of his venti Starbucks cup. Miles had zero sympathy, having had the common sense to stop drinking at least five shots before Jeremy. Behind the line of rookies, Tom Neville strode into the room, his ever-present stack of field assignments and crime statistics clutched in one hand, Blackberry tucked under his thumb.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the Philadelphia Police Academy graduating class of 2012. Rookies, meet your future training officers." Tom intoned with his usual gravitas as if this kind of thing didn't happen every six months, as if Miles and his co-workers weren't in the room completely against their will, held hostage by bureaucracy and the threat of having to work crowd control at the next Thanksgiving Day Parade. As if Tom himself hadn't once sighed his way through rookie assignments just like everyone else.

The Old Guard of Precinct 17 were admittedly a motley bunch; half of them in uniform, the rest in various stages of plain-clothes wear, caught between shifts and cases and when put up against the rookies who had spent all morning ironing their clip-on ties and shining their boots, the Old Guard looked considerably worse for the wear. A dozen sets of eager wide eyes scanned over Miles and he had to bite the inside of his lip to keep his smirk suppressed. God, had he ever been that young and ridiculous?

The definitive crack of the door being shut firmly drew everyone's attention and Miles rolled his eyes at the slender brunette in a gray Henley and ripped jeans who swaggered into the room, backpack over one shoulder, curly hair still damp from the shower. Jeremy snickered quietly into his coffee as the late entrant crossed the room, eyeing the rookies with open curiosity and more than a little amusement. To the casual observer, Tom's face never changed, but Miles had known the man for almost ten years, recognized the faint twitch at the corner of his left eye. It was one he himself got often when dealing with a contrary Bass Monroe and honestly, when was Bass _not_ contrary?

"Sorry," was all Bass murmured as she settled into the empty office chair in front of Miles, the rollers sliding back to knock into his dress shoes. Acknowledging the lackluster apology with a bob of his head, Tom turned back to the rookies as Jeremy leaned down, hand on Bass's shoulder. Miles stared down at her bared arms, at the thick black tattoo that decorated the inside of her right forearm, the tattoo that had officially gotten her banned from undercover work. Admittedly, that had been Miles's request, that she quit, but Bass was Bass and she only made grand gestures, not prone to simplicity.

"Nice entrance," Jeremy whispered, just loud enough for Miles to hear. Bass grinned unapologetically as she craned her neck around to look up at the two of them, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. It had been a while since Miles had seen that smile.

"Wheatley just kicked us loose from debrief." Bass whispered, words contorted around a yawn. "I'm dead on my feet," Jeremy squeezed her shoulder in solidarity and held out his coffee, the gesture met with a shake of Bass's head, a finger pointing at the backpack at her feet. Miles, never one for PDA, just met her gaze and held it. They'd had their own silent language since they were kids and her soft smile told him she'd received the message loud and clear.

At the front of the room, Tom continued on his usual cadence of the morning briefing. Miles only had half an ear on the patrol assignments being handed out up front, previously distracted by Bass and now too busy calculating the odds before him. There were a dozen rookies and at least thirty day shift officers, not including the detectives, so the odds were… Charlie's name being called pulled Miles from his reverie.

"Officer Matheson, I guess it's your lucky day. You'll be riding with Sgt. Baker," Charlie's grin was an instant rush of relief, flooding her face and Miles felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. He'd been a little worried that Tom would pull a dick move and put Charlie with someone like Strausser. Now he could call Ben and tell the man to stop worrying, Charlie was in good hands.

"And no, you may not play with the siren," Jeremy called out, eliciting a wave of laughter from the gathered officers. Even Tom's mouth twitched as Charlie's grin quickly morphed into one of embarrassment. Miles rolled his eyes, glad he didn't have to be the one to destroy his niece's perpetual Pollyanna view of the world. He could trust Jeremy to let her down gently.

"And finally, Officer Neville," the laughter died like a button had been pushed, everyone waiting with bated breath to see which unlucky bastard would be saddled with the boss's kid and all that entailed. Jason Neville didn't have his father's poker face yet, nerves making his hands twitch at his sides and his eyes dart around the room. Where once he had been the foundling Prince of the Precinct, now he was low man on the totem pole and his father's position in the department simultaneously helped and hindered that placement.

Yet again, completely immune to the sacred quiet of a tense moment, Bass broke the awkward silence as she cracked the top on a Redbull, making the rookies jump. Tom's gaze veered in her direction, lips faintly pursed. Accepting the attention with a sarcastic toast, Bass lifted the can to her mouth, morning power play well underway.

"You'll be riding with Detective…" Tom trailed off, seeming to enjoy the power he held over the room. Miles' stomach clenched as the field was severely narrowed in possibilities, the odds turning against him. There were five other detectives in the room besides him and two of them already had rookies. "Officer Neville, I believe I'd like to place you with Detective Monroe."

Can still at her mouth, Bass choked on the sip she'd just taken, spewing Redbull all over the back of the chair in front of her. Jeremy reached down to clap her on the back as she wheezed, wiping Redbull away from the corners of her mouth. Miles cringed inwardly at the expression on Tom's face and the mild panic on Neville Junior's. And just like that, the contentious history between Tom and Bass overflowed its tenuous boundaries, Tom's warning shot lingering in the air of the briefing room.

"Looking forward to it," Bass said, voice raspy from coughing, but not raspy enough to mask the lethal intent in her tone.

"Glad to hear it, Detective," Tom replied and turned back to wish the rookies good luck on their first day on the job. Miles watched Jeremy and Bass out of the corner of his eye, noting the way that Jeremy's fingers dug warningly into Bass's tense shoulder as if he could hold her back with a simple gesture.

So much for an easy Monday.


	2. Chapter 2

**To err is human, to forgive is against department policy.**

* * *

The old Bass had had three typical methods for dealing with stress. Two involved alcohol, two involved borderline lewd behavior, and all three involved Jeremy having to appease someone large, tattooed, and very angry while Miles restrained a belligerent Bass. Based on the expression on Bass's face as she led young Officer Neville from the briefing room, there was a distinct possibility of any of the aforementioned coping mechanisms being deployed, work be damned. That meant when Miles stuck his head into the Narcotics bullpen and found Jason sitting at Bass's desk and the hellion herself nowhere in sight, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. At the very least, he'd been expecting Bass to be stomping around the room, slamming her coffee mug down and hanging up her phone with more force than was necessary.

The old Bass did loud and in your face. She did giant public displays of arrogance and emotion, throwing things and shouting. She did not do absence and avoiding and quiet. Atypical methods for dealing with stress in relation to Bass did not comfort Miles. If anything, they made him even more nervous.

The new Bass made Miles nervous.

_Where are you?_ The text went three minutes without a response, telling him that wherever Bass was hiding, she was staring at the screen, chewing on her thumbnail, debating whether or not to text him back. Bass on the run was ten times more dangerous than in your face Bass.

_Behind the Bear_. Finally came the reply, just as Miles was ready to ask one of the female officers to check if Bass was in the ladies room. He grumbled under his breath, allowing a crappy night's sleep and the morning's drama to work its way out of his system, lest he be tempted to take it out on Bass. Frustrated as he was with the situation and her own stubbornness, he understood her reactions even if they did make him want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her fillings rattled.

Out in the motor pool, Miles made eye contact with Jeremy, a quick glance that communicated only half of the things he really wanted to say, mostly 'help me' and 'God, I just want to be home' and 'she's doing it again.' Jeremy seemed to understand anyway, a quick nod over Charlie's unsuspecting head as Miles watched his own reflection in the other man's mirrored shades. Popping out the back door, he strode across the damp pavement towards the corner of the back parking lot, specifically towards the behemoth armored vehicle that the SRT team shared with two other precincts in the area.

Still clad in her rumpled civvies, Bass leaned against the wheel well of the Bear, one hand worrying at a hangnail, the other swirling her half-empty Redbull can as she stared blankly at the security fence. Miles bit back a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he approached. He wasn't quiet by any means, kicking a loose rock into the fence, but Bass didn't acknowledge him, still tugging at the loose skin around her thumbnail, caught up in the memories of a past that had sunk its claws in deep.

Miles watched the swirling of the Redbull can grow more violent, some of the liquid sloshing out the top, dripping onto Bass's hand. Once, Miles had enjoyed it when Bass worked herself into a tizzy. Today, though he doubted the end result would be anything like post-coital cuddling and the sprawl of sated limbs. Reaching out to still the jiggling can would be a bad idea, Bass rarely handled interruption well, now more than ever, so Miles leaned a hip against one of the armored doors of the Bear, folded his arms over his chest and waited.

_They're gone, Bass. God, I'm so sorry, but they're gone._

Abruptly, the can stilled and Bass's shoulders slumped, exhaling heavily, anger making way for resignation as she scrubbed her free hand over her face. Even in the back corner of the parking lot, hidden by the Bear, Miles didn't reach out, didn't snag her wrist and pull her into his arms, or inhale the soft scent of her soap in the hollow of her throat. That was Jeremy's territory, the open affection and blatant touches where everyone and anyone could see them.

Miles didn't touch, but when Bass looked up, equal parts angry and upset, he offered a smile, turning the corners of his mouth up with genuine fondness.

"I love you," he might not have touched, but he could sure as hell still speak.

She didn't reply, but the gentle bump of her shoulder and the ever so slight catch of her pinky against his as they walked across the parking lot towards the precinct was answer enough.

* * *

"Why does Bass hate Captain Neville? And why does he hate her back?" the minute the passenger door of the cruiser shut, the one question that Jeremy had been hoping would _not_ get asked came flying out of his goddaughter's mouth. Grunting noncommittally, he shoved at the cup holder on the dash, cramming his venti coffee into a space meant for a grande until the receptacle balanced there precariously, inches above his freshly dry-cleaned uniform pants. It was not the best way to start off a shift, but Jeremy had started off worse. Taking the door off another squad car in the sally port came to mind among other things.

"Uncle Jeremy?" Charlie pushed, already precisely buckled into the passenger seat, an earnest expression on her face, hands folded in her lap. She was so fresh-faced and eager and god… no way had he ever been like that. Once a long time ago, Bass had looked at the world through rose-colored glasses, but Jeremy was fairly certain he'd come out of the womb jaded and cynical. Miles too.

Bass had looked like Tom had punched her, there in the briefing room, old wounds spread open for all to see. And in that moment, Jeremy had wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and take her away, Miles too, just the three of them, somewhere where they didn't have to remember.

God, his head hurt. An understatement, a very understated understatement. The Ibuprofen he'd dry swallowed in line to get coffee earlier hadn't kicked in yet, buried under a blueberry scone and a few tentative sips of scalding black coffee. Rubbing at his temples, Jeremy cocked his head sideways, staring at his passenger over the top of his sunglasses, tilting his head a little to avoid the sunlight streaming through the windshield of the cruiser. Charlie waited.

"Look, kid," he felt more than saw Charlie bristle at the descriptor, but kept right on plowing ahead while the words were fresh in the forefront of his mind ahead of the bass drum beat of his headache. "Even if I wasn't so hungover that I might still be drunk, I'd tell you not to poke your nose where it doesn't belong." There was a beat before his words sunk in, before Charlie realized she wasn't talking to "Uncle Jeremy", but the light dawned in her face and she nodded, lips clenched tight in embarrassment. He didn't blame her for the slip. She was nervous and brain-to-mouth filters tended to fail based on nerves.

Hell, Jeremy's first time in a patrol car with his training officer, he'd blurted out his juvenile record in a rapid fire barrage before he realized that his training officer had only asked him where he wanted to eat for lunch. And that had been _without_ someone familiar in the car.

"And from now on, it's Sergeant Baker, okay, _Officer_ Matheson? You're at the bottom of the heap, rookie. Better get used to it." His head still hurt, scolding aside and he stared at his venti coffee in the grande cup holder and didn't like his odds.

"Fuck it." Jeremy muttered, turning the key in the ignition. "We're getting coffee."

Charlie shot a glance at the cup by his knee, but wisely kept her mouth shut.

* * *

Before the extra ornamentation on his uniform and a spacious new office, Jason's father would come home, grinding his teeth and muttering under his breath about 'that she-devil' behind half-closed bedroom doors. That was one of the things that Jason remembered the most from his father's hit-or-miss attendance of his formative years, the man talking about another woman. At the age of six, Jason hadn't understood the content, just that his mother had developed a habit of sighing heavily and saying 'yes, dear' in that tone of voice she got when Jason insisted the monsters were still under his bed.

Jason thought he might have met the other woman once, the ghost of blue eyes and a hesitant pat on his head playing around the edges of his definitive memory.

Sitting beside Detective Monroe's desk, Jason didn't see anything familiar, but judging by the way the curly haired detective was banging two-fingered on her keyboard, there may have been something to his father's description of 'she-devil'. Monroe had changed since the briefing room, gone were the ripped jeans, replaced with a sleek black pantsuit, a silky blue shirt underneath matching her eyes.

In no way did the change in outfit make her seem any more approachable.

The desk phone rang abruptly at his elbow and Jason jumped. Without looking away from the computer screen, Monroe impatiently flapped a hand in the direction of the noise, the scowl furrowing even deeper between her eyebrows. Taking it was a silent order to answer the phone, Jason grabbed the receiver, dropping it when the plastic slipped against his sweaty palms, the plastic clattering against the metal desktop.

Monroe didn't look up but out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw her shoulders rise and fall in a heavy sigh. Embarrassment burned in his cheeks as he picked up the phone again.

"Um, Philadelphia Police Department, Narcotics Unit, Detective Monroe's phone." This time Monroe looked up, one eyebrow arched as if she had never seen anything quite like him before. Jason swallowed hard under the cerulean stare. There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before a man's voice finally spoke, rough like a pack-a-day smoker.

"Oh, I can smell the fresh meat from here. Who was stupid enough to give the Devil herself a walking talking human being to look after?" Jason goggled for a minute before he found his voice somewhere in the back of his throat, Monroe still staring, now leaning back in her chair, arms folded over her chest.

"Um, may I ask who's calling please?" there was a snicker this time, nasty and smug and Monroe sighed again. Jason really wished there was some way he could go back in time and start the entire morning all over again, preferably without his father being a vindictive douche bag or his training officer being an insufferable human being with a chip on her shoulder.

"Tell her it's Drexel. She'll know who I am." Jason folded his hand over the receiver and repeated the name to Monroe. An irritated expression sharpened the woman's features and she made a sound that was not quite a growl, but not a sigh either.

"Get me a cup of coffee," Monroe said, holding her hand out for the receiver. "Five packets of sugar and two things of creamer," Jason nodded, handing over the receiver, just glad to be out of the line of fire.

Low man on the totem pole… he'd see at least another six dozen coffee and lunch runs before he even got remotely close to anything resembling action, especially since he'd been assigned to a detective rather than a patrol officer. Jason's father had warned him about the life of a rookie since the moment Jason had applied to the Academy. It didn't bother him as much as he imagined it did some of his fellow graduates and that was mostly because Monroe hadn't bent over backwards to make sure the "Captain's Kid" was happy. In fact, she seemed far more interested in ignoring his presence completely.

"Monroe," the female detective tipped back dangerously far in her chair, one hand stabbing through her curly mane, eyes fixed on her computer screen. "What information have you managed to scrape off the bottom of your shoe this time, Drexel?"

Jason rose quietly, oriented himself in the slightly chaotic bullpen of the Narcotics unit and headed for the kitchenette in the corner. There, stirring sugar and cream into Monroe's coffee, he took the opportunity to watch her, the loose sprawl of her limbs as she pinned the phone between her shoulder and ear, stretching her arms over her head. Without a smile on her face, everything about her was sharp edges and corners, nothing friendly about her posture or face. He knew she was capable of it, she'd flashed a warm grin at Detective Matheson and Sgt. Baker earlier, a grin that had warmed her pretty face and turned her into another person all together.

He wondered which Monroe his father had known.

The actual concrete facts Jason knew about Sebastian "Bass" Monroe fit on one hand: (1) she was a former Marine, (2) she'd been his father's partner for nearly six years, (3) she'd been shot twice in the line of duty, (4) even in a pair of heeled boots, he had a good two inches on her. Everything else was a muddle of innuendo and legend: she had a bounty on her head courtesy of Randal Flynn himself, she'd slept with everyone in the precinct at least once and gone back for seconds in some cases, she'd single-handedly brought down a drug-smuggling ring, she'd been investigated by IAB so many times they had one dedicated officer to handle her. Jason tapped the stir-stick on the coffee mug and tossed the garbage of his chore into the trash. His father was tight-lipped about the woman, something Jason hadn't thought much about when he was younger and didn't understand now that he was older beyond the vague concept of bad blood between the two. His mother wasn't exactly a fount of information either, but there was a haunted expression on her face whenever he asked, so he'd quit asking.

Monroe didn't say anything when he returned, slipping the mug onto the desk next to her keyboard, but there was a notepad out, her handwriting a chicken scratch on the yellow page, pen flying as she focused intently on the phone call. Jason eased himself back down into the uncomfortable visitor's chair, unsure what he should do next. A uniformed officer came into the bullpen, dragging a handcuffed man in a flannel shirt and jeans, the latter yelling about his civil rights at the top of his lungs. No one blinked and after a beat, Jason pulled his gaze away before anyone could catch him watching the scene like some civilian rubbernecker.

As the suspect continued to shout, Monroe continued to write, lower lip caught between her teeth. Jason drifted again, watching the hectic yet somehow organized scrambling of the people around him. Something nudged hard against his foot and he jerked back to the present, looking down to find the rounded toe of Monroe's black boot resting atop his own foot and then up into blue eyes that were only marginally warmer than an icicle.

A note was shoved at him, scribbled at the bottom of the notepad and circled twice. It took him a few tries to read it.

_Find Detective Cal Wheatley._

Jason nodded and stood, but Monroe had already dismissed him, attention back on her notes, muttering 'uh-huh' into the phone. It didn't hit him until he was out in the hallway that he had no idea who Detective Cal Wheatley was, let alone where to find him.

It took Jason three minutes to work up the strength to ask someone, his rookie pride bruised deeply under the smug expression of a passing sergeant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Field experience is something you don't get until just after you need it**

* * *

"Yeah, dispatch, this is 127. Show us responding to that 10-96." ever since she first saw her Uncle Miles in his uniform, first from the Marines and then with the Philadelphia Police Department, Charlie Matheson had known she'd wanted to do something similar with her life. Of course that surety did nothing to relieve the knot in her stomach as the word's left Jeremy's mouth.

Anyway, it wasn't like they had the option not to respond, not with the reason for the call standing right there in front of them. Life had not been kind to their suspect whose brown hair was going grey unevenly, middle-age leaving him with an extra few pounds around the middle and a nose redder than Rudolph's.

It had not been life, however, that had left the man buck-ass naked except for one sock on his left foot. Judging by the pile of clothing on the hood of someone's minivan that had been all the man's handiwork. Charlie forced herself to keep looking even though she was sure she was blushing like an idiot, just in case there was a hidden weapon or the man decided to rush them head on. There was a betting pool among the rookies about who would have the worst call of the day and somehow, Charlie was pretty sure she had this one in the bag.

"10-4, 127; standing by," the dispatcher intoned, the connection crackling with distance and poor reception. As the radio fell silent, Jeremy stared hard out the windshield like he was trying to subdue the man with the power of his mind. Charlie bit her lip to keep from asking any questions, aware more than ever that she was the rookie here, that Jeremy was the one with all the experience.

In the street, the suspect folded himself into a Heisman pose, one leg drawn up, arm extended as he protected an invisible football. Jeremy grunted as if in physical pain and scrubbed a hand roughly down his face.

"Don't put your hand on your gun; do what I say when I say. Smile, don't make any sudden movements, stay on my right side." were the instructions as the senior officer unbuckled his seatbelt. "And for the love of god, kid…" he paused then, looked at her with still bloodshot eyes. "Don't talk."

Charlie nodded. The training from the Academy raced through her brain, all the times she'd trained with fellow officers playing suspects, all the different training scenarios that they'd talked about in the classroom. That had been theory and she was about to relay it into practical use. The thought was terrifying.

The man in front of them was flesh and blood, not an image on a projector screen with helpful arrows and captions. He had the potential of being a danger to himself and those around him. Judging by the expression on Jeremy's face, the naked man was certainly a danger to her training officer's state of mind.

The gentle click of a door closing jolted Charlie back to reality and she scrambled to get out of the car, following Jeremy's lead, hoping she looked as calm as he did when really her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest. To her surprise, Jeremy stepped up by the nose of the cruiser and stopped, hands casual at his sides.

"Hey, Ken," Charlie sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to keep her mouth from dropping open at Jeremy's tone, light and friendly and familiar. The suspect waved in greeting, now dancing to the beat inside his own head, something that required far too much hip thrusting to be considered a dance move. Unsure, Charlie slid a sideways look at Jeremy who appeared nonplussed at both the nudity and the exhibitionism, maybe a little resigned like he was making his peace with the fact that he worked in a job field that regularly featured naked fat dancing men.

"They change up your meds again?" Ken nodded, still hip thrusting as if his life depended on it, everything wiggling. Charlie looked down, studied the tips of her boots for a good ten seconds, looked back up and had to fight down her gag reflex. Jeremy acted like nothing was happening in front of him. She doubted he even registered behavior like that anymore, not with Bass and her predilection for dancing on tables after too much tequila.

"Is Tammy home?" Jeremy asked pleasantly. It was at direct odds with the man who'd yawned his way through two cups of coffee just an hour ago, bleary-eyed and slouched low in his plastic chair, glowering at the general public when someone looked like they wanted to approach.

"She's at work, but it's okay. I'm dancing," Ken finally spoke, his voice the sloping slur of someone under the influence of heavy-duty narcotics. They'd covered something similar to this in the Academy, but that had been a video simulation. This? This was… Ken and Ken was still dancing.

"Do you know when she's gonna be home?" Jeremy asked, still casual like he had conversations with naked men in the middle of the street every day. Hell, maybe he did. It was only Charlie's first day after all.

Without warning, Ken swayed, head bobbling around as if too heavy for his neck, knees wobbling and Charlie automatically stepped forward, one hand extended as if she could stop his fall from ten feet away.

"Stop," Jeremy hissed out of the corner of his mouth, but it was too late, the movement had registered behind bleary brown eyes. The wobbling of the other man's body straightened abruptly and his once-hazy gaze focused sharply on Charlie and her extended hand. She froze, distinctly aware of being the center of attention of both her training officer and the suspect.

"You want to arrest me!" accusatory, the words were flung at Charlie, Ken's nostril's suddenly flaring wide, his arms coming up aggressively. She wanted to take a step back, but moving had been the catalyst for the current situation, she didn't think doing it again would be a good idea. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jeremy's right hand rise to placate even as his other elbow bent, the left hand easing back towards the Taser on his equipment belt.

"Ken, we're not going to arrest you," Jeremy said easily, still calm. "We just want to get you back inside until Tammy gets home from work. There's kids on this street, man. You don't want to scare the kids, do you?" it seemed to work, Ken's face settling into something contemplative as he glanced at the houses on either side of him. It was a nice neighborhood, but the guy had to be pretty far gone not to realize that it was eleven-hundred hours and any kid old enough to be traumatized by a naked, drugged-up man dancing in the middle of the street was either in school or firmly locked in their bedroom while their mother watched the unfolding drama from the front window.

"Yeah, I don't want to scare the kids," Ken finally said, letting his arms drop to his sides, shoulders slumping. Charlie dropped her hand too, settling flat on her feet, no longer in the act of moving forward.

Ken bolted.

"Police, stop!" Jeremy was five strides ahead of her before Charlie's brain even caught up with the fact that their suspect was now on the run, arms pumping, knees high as he sprinted down the street, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Dispatch! This is 127. In pursuit of suspect! SW Grand and Division!" the words blasted out of the radio on her shoulder as ahead of her, Jeremy called in the runner. The dispatcher's response was lost in the thud of Charlie's heart in her ears as she chased after her training officer and their naked suspect, her feet pounding the cement, the impact jarring up her calves and into her hips.

God, she was never going to live this down.

* * *

"Hey, jarhead," a pile of paperwork landed on the corner of the desk, jarring Bass out of a staring contest with her screen saver, a picture of a kitten clinging desperately to a branch, back legs wind milling in the air, 'Just Hang In There' cheerfully emblazoned below. Someone else had put the screen saver up, probably the detective who'd occupied the desk before her and whoever it was, she hoped she never met him because she knew she'd hate him on principle. She'd also decided that if she were that kitten, she would have let go, dropped down onto whatever danger had scared the tiny animal up there in the first place and clawed its damn eyes out.

Bass figured her response to the picture was not one that most people had.

"Hey, Sarge," she finally responded, meeting the warm gaze of Sgt. Bill O'Halloran with a tired smile. Officer Neville was still gone, hunting down the forms she'd made up in order to chase him away for a few minutes before she did something regrettable.

Jason, her brain unhelpfully supplied the memory of a small bright-eyed infant in his father's arms, fingers in his mouth. Bass had been only peripherally aware of Tom's baby growing through the stages of childhood, gone as much as she'd been. What she had seen were wallet-sized photographs, the typical poses for a little boy who looked more like his father than his mother. And then after, when the rift between she and Tom had splintered, sudden and violent, she simply hadn't cared and the little baby who had once chewed on her fingertip with a gassy grin had become Officer Neville, son of the enemy.

"You look like shit on a stick," without an invitation, Bill perched on the corner of the desk, right on top of the papers he'd just dropped there. Worry furrowed his eyebrows and deepened the lines around his mouth and Bass found her own gaze shifting away under the weight of his concern, rubbing a palm over the tattoo on her forearm. Just once, she wished someone would look at her without pity or sympathy as if she was clinging by her fingertips to reality.

"Early morning raid; didn't get much sleep," Bass lied easily, a lifetime of it built up on her tongue. She'd never lied to Bill before though and it bothered her that it came as easily as anything she said to the department shrink every Thursday morning. Her hands threatened to betray her, toying nervously with the papers stacked next to her monitor, old receipts and lab printouts sifting through her fingers. The older man grunted, disbelief in his tone, but Bill was a big proponent of the separation of work and personal lives and she knew he'd leave it alone.

"Where's your rookie?" Bill asked instead of pushing the matter, eyebrows still furrowed. Bass sat up in her chair so she didn't feel quite so much like a kid caught in the act.

Her former training officer had that effect even now almost twelve years later. A Marine for fifteen years before he'd joined the Philadelphia Police Department, Bill O'Halloran still carried himself like a military man, chest out, back straight, commanding respect with his body language alone. A former Marine herself, Bass had ceased to be intimidated by the second day of working with him, but there were still moments when the shadows covered his eyes just right or he spoke too sharply and she'd feel the overwhelming urge to snap to.

"Sent him to get me some paperwork; form 13-E." Bill's eyes crinkled into a sudden smile and he guffawed, head thrown back in laughter. The humor was contagious and Bass felt the corners of her mouth turn up for real, fond memories replacing the bad ones that had been haunting her all morning.

"How long did you look for those things?" Bill asked once he could speak clearly again, wiping tears of amusement from the corners of his eyes. It was good to see that she could still make someone laugh. Miles and Jeremy weren't fans of her gallows humor and Bass couldn't bring herself to think of things any other way.

"Almost an hour," Bass retorted, still smiling even though it had started to move into the realm of forced as she remembered that there was probably a reason that Bill was there, checking up on her at someone's behest, she was sure; Jeremy's, probably, since the two worked so closely together. "I sure as hell wasn't gonna come back and tell you I couldn't find them."

"I remember having to come find you. Thought you'd gotten lost in the filing room or run home out the back door," Bill snickered at the memory, slapping his thigh with one hand, eyes crinkling with amusement. Bass remembered the incident vividly, pieces of paper in each hand, neither one of them being the form that her training officer had asked for. The stubborn streak running straight through the middle of her that had kept her from asking for help certainly hadn't lessened any over the years.

"And another great tradition from the Old Guard has been passed on," Bass said, knowing the rookies were lucky that hazing was now frowned upon in the department. Jason had been gone for almost twenty minutes and he was even more stubborn than she'd been, bound and determined to live a life free from his father's far-reaching shadow. Poor kid really didn't know the shit storm he'd stepped into with both feet.

"Monroe!" a familiar voice bellowed over the mild racket of the bullpen and Bass craned her neck around to see Cal Wheatley in the doorway of one of the smaller interview rooms, stack of files tucked under one arm. When he saw he'd gotten her attention, Wheatley waved his free arm, beckoning her. A scowl marred his handsome face and she quirked an eyebrow because she was almost 100% certain he'd been smiling two hours ago.

"Well, better let you get back to it, kid. " Bill said as he stood, adjusting his equipment belt more comfortably around his waist. "Looks like Wheatley needs your invaluable input."

Bass smirked, pushed the papers that he'd ben sitting on towards him, a few corners bent from the edge of the desk. "Don't forget your papers, Sarge."

Bill snorted, grin stretching across his face.

"Just a bunch of recycling; I needed an excuse to come see my favorite rookie." With a wink and a friendly squeeze of her shoulder, Bill was gone, threading his way through the bullpen with ease. Bass shook her head affectionately, grabbing the notepad off her keyboard, remembering the pen already jammed through the mass of hair atop her head before she grabbed another one.

Cal had been hunting down the information that Drexel phoned in earlier, checking with his contacts in the Philadelphia underworld and hoping one of them could corroborate the urban legend of a new power player in town. A new power player was big news in Philadelphia, especially since the majority of the drug trade had been residing in a vacuum for the last two years, spawning lots of little cabals and gangs, all vying for the top spot. The PPD had been selectively picking them off like a sniper over the same time span, the latest to fall a ten man organization operating out of an apartment complex on Garrison, her raid from earlier that had left her with a gritty feeling behind her eyes and an ache at the base of her neck.

"What'd O'Hardass want?" Cal asked, kicking the door shut behind her as she slipped into the interrogation room. Bass avoided her reflection in the two-way mirror more out of habit than disgust, taking the chair that faced away from the glass. She didn't want to see who she was today, not sure if she'd recognize the reflection.

"Hey, back up off, O'Halloran. Not everyone trained with Sergeant Friendly," Bass muttered, referring to the nickname for Sergeant John Faber, the all-around nice guy of Precinct 17, known for his smile and gentle touch with the rookies. Bill had once stopped in the middle of Mirandizing a suspect to tell Bass she was an idiot and exactly what she'd done wrong.

God, she'd idolized that man.

"You want something to really get worked up over?" Cal said, emphasizing his words by dropping the stack of files on the table with a thud. Bass shrugged her indifference to the dramatics, pulling the pen free from her ponytail and clicking the tip out. Cal selected a file from the stack, shoved it forward to bump against her knuckles, but keeping his hand firmly atop it.

"Drexel's information was good." Bass crooked an eyebrow in surprise, the corners of Cal's mouth twitching up.

"Believe me, I was surprised too. What I have here is a file on a man named Arthur Koenig. He's wanted internationally as well as here, mostly murder for hire and smuggling small quantities of stolen drugs." Bass reached for the file only to have Cal pull it away. She scowled at him in frustration.

"Are we working or playing keep away?" She asked, stretching out of her chair across the table to grab the edge of the file, trying to tug it out from under his hand.

"Bass," one word, her name, but Cal's tone was half pleading, half cautioning. She stopped pulling at the paper, met worried blue eyes and knew all was not well. They'd worked together for almost five years enough for her to know that the man had a very bad poker face, probably why he'd been on the other side of the wire all those years while she'd had to get used to the itch of surgical tape on the underside of her breasts and the lechery of small time thugs.

"If you try and baby me through a case, so help me God, I will break your fucking kneecaps, Cal," Bass said, reaching for the file again. After a moment of hesitation, Cal lifted his hand off the file, settling back in his chair, watching her intently.

Bass resisted the urge to squirm under the attention, pulling the file back to her spot and flipping it open. Halfway down the abstract clipped to the inside of the file, her breath caught in her throat. The good mood from Bill's visit shriveled up and died in a harsh lump in her chest and she fought the tremors that threatened to consume her control.

The years away from Miles and Jeremy, the crushing loneliness and fear.

The absolute failure, crushing despair, agony, the desire to curl up and die; the near destruction of her career.

Two surgeries and countless hours of physical therapy and counseling, the pain that had never quite faded that still bothered her when it rained or got too cold.

A total loss of the will to live.

It all blurred together on the page in front of her, coalescing into one name, there just under the tip of her finger. She blinked, expecting tears and was a little to surprised to find anger instead, burning all the way down to her fingertips. She was furious, not scared… not anymore.

Bass shoved her chair back abruptly and the metal seat slammed into the wall with a clatter, the sudden adrenaline making her limbs tremble. Words formed on the tip of her tongue, words of wrath and query and why but she couldn't force them into comprehensive sentences so they just rested there, dull and flat in her mouth. Bass paced all of three steps before that rage coalesced in her joints, prompting her to lash out, fingers clenched tight against her palm.

To his credit, Cal didn't even blink, clearly expecting some kind of reaction. Pain, sharp and intense, exploded through her hand and Bass winced as she pulled her fist out of the indention it had made in the drywall, grimacing at the split knuckles, the blood oozing out of the wounds, the ache that radiated through her fingers and wrist. That was going to be a difficult explanation later. No way she could hide an injury like that from Miles or Jeremy.

"Feeling better?" Cal asked, still seated, hands folded on the table in front of him, the very picture of calm although his eyes were sharp and assessing. Bass's shoulders rose and fell unsteadily, adrenaline still spiking in her system, the pain fading as the cold-burning anger took over again.

"Give me ten minutes," she replied just as calmly, proud that her voice didn't shake. "And I will be."

* * *

Once upon a time, Tom Neville had slept on Bass Monroe's couch when he got in a fight with Julia. They'd gotten drunk together, taped up injuries together and brought each other coffee in the morning. They'd lived in surveillance vans, constantly in each other's pockets until they were one person, watched each other's backs so long they knew what the other was thinking.

Once upon a time, Tom had trusted Bass Monroe with his life. But once upon a time didn't mean happily ever after and Tom wasn't sure if he could ever trust Bass ever again.

The door that had been cracked a few inches to keep an ear on happenings out in the bullpen suddenly opened, admitting the Devil herself with the force of a Category 5 hurricane, the very image of a modern day Fury with her hair loose over her shoulders, blue eyes snapping cold fire.

The last time Tom had seen Bass express anything other than impudence or apathy had been on soundless black and white surveillance footage. She'd been on her knees in a parking garage, sobbing as a man in black held a gun to her head. The tears hadn't been fear, they'd been the expulsion of grief and agony and Tom would never forget that expression, the guilt that hit him hard in the chest every time he caught a far-off look on Bass's face.

"Detective Monroe," distance had proved to be the best way of dealing with Bass when she slipped into one of her mercurial moods. Once upon a time it had been alcohol and ice cream and a late night without significant others, but Tom sincerely doubted that would work in their current situation.

"Captain Neville," she drawled, tone mocking. The door shut with a decisive crack and only years of practice kept Tom from flinching at the noise. Not that he wanted an audience for whatever dance they were about to do, but witnesses were always nice to have around in the event of a court case. He wondered briefly where Jason was, then shoved the thought away. His son was a grown man, capable and decisive and not even Bass Monroe and every ounce of her anger could destroy that.

"Guess who's in town?" the congenial tone of Bass's voice did nothing to mask the intent in her eyes. Tom knew what she was talking about, had gotten the heads up from Wheatley two hours ago, a chance to get ahead of the oncoming storm. Tom finished his signature on the additional resources form, pushed it to the side and settled his hands in front of him, squaring off against his former partner.

"Randal Flynn," Saying the name didn't take any of the wind out of her sails, if anything it fanned the flames that already burned. Bass leaned on the back of the visitor's chair in front of his desk, her long fingers stretching over the black leather. That was what made the blood on her left hand so prominent, dried in the valleys between her fingers from two split knuckles, the skin scraped and raw and painful looking. The injury was fresh, but he hadn't heard any shouting so he assumed she'd punched something instead of someone which was always preferable from an HR standpoint.

"You're bleeding." Tom said, indicating the injury with a nod of his head, a memory of wound at another time trying to break free from the depths of his memory. He ruthlessly shoved it back down, unwilling to go there at a time when vulnerability would be seen as weakness and pounced upon. Bass glanced down as if she'd forgotten about injury, a moment of lucidity breaking the anger in the form of a pained wince, Wonder Woman admitting to having faults. Then she flexed her fingers and the ire returned to her face.

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time, would it?" Bass retorted sharply and that punch of guilt rode the words all the way into his heart. Tom didn't react, just pulled his face into a droll expression, one eyebrow arching. Two could play the ancient history game.

"You can either lecture me about the past or the present, Detective Monroe. I'm afraid that I don't have time for both today." Something flashed across her face, a lightning quick display of emotion. On a lesser person it might have been hurt, but this was Bass and Bass was not a lesser person by any stretch of the imagination, gaining her equilibrium almost instantly.

"I'm going after Flynn." Bass paused as if expecting a comment, an exclamation of despair, something she could strike out against. Tom remained silent, unwilling to give her what she wanted. "And I am going to burn his life down around him." She quirked an eyebrow at him, confusion flashing in her eyes at his unusual reaction.

"And?" Tom asked when prompted by a flick of her hand, knowing there was probably a grandiose threat in the making, something that only someone as angry as Bass could cook up. A flash of her shark smile, all teeth and no humor and Tom heard the unspoken taunt: stop me if you can.

For a split second, it threatened to overwhelm Tom, memory and remorse, balanced precariously on his shoulders, too much weight for one single man. It crushed him, pressed hard on his chest and made him want to beg for mercy. Too bad he would have to beg the only person on the planet who would never forgive him. Suddenly, Tom felt tired, felt it in his bones and at the back of his skull. With a sigh, he rubbed at his temple, a burgeoning headache beginning there. Triumph flashed in Bass's face…

"Go home, Bass; take care of your hand,"

… and disappeared just as quickly at his words. An admonishment had been on the tip of Tom's tongue and it had died under the weight of his guilt. Where he should have chastised and forbidden, he opted for retreat and to be honest it was not the first time. Bass blinked, surprise softening the set of her mouth and her eyes. Before she could respond in any form, however, there was a sharp knock on his office door.

"Come!" Tom called, not breaking eye contact with his former partner. As if he'd sensed the oncoming storm—or more likely someone had noted that Bass was on the warpath and alerted him—Miles Matheson poked his head into the office, the as of late ever present scowl firmly in place. Miles' brown eyes flicked from Tom to the back of Bass's head and back again, suspicious.

"And what can I do for you, Detective Matheson?" an almost imperceptible flinch twitched over Bass's face at the revelation of who was behind her. Despite how angry she made him, the protective urge was still strongly embedded and Tom couldn't help but wonder what was going on off the clock when the worst kept secret in the Philadelphia Police Department returned to their home. He couldn't imagine it was all sunshine and lollipops.

"Bass, Officer Neville is looking for you," Miles' gaze was shrewd, pinned to Bass's tensed shoulders and as Tom watched, Bass walked her injured hand a inwards, hiding the damaged appendage with her body. She remained silent despite Miles' presence, gaze still locked on Tom, impassive where there had once been rage personified. She clearly didn't expect his help, but old habits die hard and once again, Tom found himself covering for his old partner.

"Detective Monroe was actually just stepping out for the day," Tom said when it became obvious that Bass wasn't going to speak. Miles twisted his body into the office, all pretense of subterfuge gone, holding the door shut behind his back, scowl deeper than before.

"What's wrong?" Miles demanded with no little worry in his voice and Bass finally moved, glanced over her shoulder at Miles, guileless as ever. Wheatley had kept his promise then, kept the information about Randal Flynn to himself as long as he could. Tomorrow morning it would be all over the precinct, but for now, the Devil had been granted a reprieve.

"Feeling a little sick, Miles," Even to Tom, the lie fell flat, Bass's delivery less than believable even though her face was innocence personified. Miles' eyes narrowed, but rather than start what would surely have been a glorious battle, he just nodded, giving the answer to Tom's unasked question from earlier about the state of Bass's home life.

"Guess I'll see you at home then," Bass watched the man leave without a word before she turned back to Tom, ready to begin the battle anew. Unfortunately for her, he was just as ready.

"You're going to fuck that up royally if you keep pushing him away." Tom said, nodding towards the door. Bass physically jerked at his words, her hands tightening so sharply on the chair that one of the split knuckles began to bleed anew, wet and glistening down her fingers. When Bass spoke, her words dripped with ice.

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me about my personal life, Tom; you lost that right a long time ago." The picture frames on the wall shook with the force of the door slamming, leaving Tom alone in the deafening silence of his office.

* * *

Danny Matheson squinted towards the lit up screen of his iPhone, unable to see who the text was from at that distance. With a grunt, he levered himself up on one elbow, stretching over the homework spread across his bed and snagged it with his fingertips.

_Badass Bass: Are your parents home? _

_Danny: That's the kind of question that gets you on a registry. _

Danny's lips curled at the corners as he fired off the reply before tossing the phone next to his math book. Four more problems and he could at least say he'd made an effort at doing his homework. Charlie would check when she came home later, but he knew she'd be tired after her first day at work and would probably only give it a cursory glance.

The phone buzzed again and he tossed his pencil down in favor of answering it, finding Bass preferable to the Pythagorean theorem.

_Badass Bass: Danny, please._

That was it, two words on his screen, but even Danny could detect the desperation in those eleven letters. He'd never been able to say no to Bass anyway, would never be able to say no to Bass even if it meant incurring his mother's wrath.

Luckily… his mother wasn't home.

_Danny: Olly olly oxen free._

Not two minutes later, the front door opened and shut downstairs, followed by the thump of a pair of shoes kicked off on the hardwood floor, the clatter of keys hitting the table in the entryway. They were unfamiliar sounds in the two-story ranch-style house that he and his parents lived. More and more lately, Danny had found himself coming home to an empty house, a house that remained empty long after he'd gone to sleep.

"What? Were you parked around the corner waiting?" Danny yelled, listening to the tread of socked feet down the hallway towards the kitchen. Bass's voice drifted up to him, faint, like she had her head stuffed in the fridge as she spoke, not that it would surprise him if she did. Her appetite nearly rivaled his in its voracity and he was a growing teenage boy.

"You got an ice pack anywhere in here?"

"Check the freezer in the garage!" Danny called, swinging his legs around to sit up. Padding out of his room, he leaned over the railing, staring down into the wide-open foyer. Bass appeared a moment later from the direction of the garage, a glacier blue icepack wrapped around her left hand, face caught in a grimace. She was still dressed for work, service weapon at her hip, badge snugged up beside it and no wonder since it was just now turning 3:30 and experience mandated that she wouldn't be off work for another two to three hours at least.

"Did you hit someone?" Danny asked, abandoning the railing to lope down the stairs, taking her wrist in his hands and pulling it close for inspection. With a heavy sigh, Bass peeled back the ice pack to reveal the damage, the two split knuckles crusted with dried blood. There was nothing smug in her expression to suggest someone had gotten what he or she deserved, just a flat blank stare, a muscle in her jaw twitching spasmodically.

Bass looked like that a lot recently, angry or sad when she didn't need to be. It made Danny think about his sophomore year of high school when everything had gone so terribly wrong. He had had never seen Uncle Miles look as broken as he had sitting next to that hospital bed, Uncle Jeremy's big hand resting on his shoulder. He didn't like to think about it especially not since Bass was very much alive, standing in front of him, talking and breathing and existing.

"I punched a wall, not someone," Bass muttered and folded the icepack back over the injury. Danny nodded, not at all off put by the admission of violence, patting her arm before he released it.

His mother was forever saying that Bass was an idiot, that she was stupid and reckless and would get someone killed some day, telling Danny's father that it might even be Miles. Danny didn't see it. When he looked at Bass, he saw the curly-haired woman who had spent more than her fair share of time making dinner and checking homework and reading good night stories to a pair of kids that she wasn't even related too. When Danny looked at Bass, he saw family.

"Where are your parents this week?" Bass asked, a spark of something approaching humanity settling in her eyes, her shoulders squaring into something less defensive.

"Mom's in Europe, Dad's in Atlanta." Danny said, banishing all thoughts of the past back to the dark places where they belonged, looping an arm around the banister and leaning against it. Bass nodded, fidgeted with the ice pack.

"Wanna do my math homework like when I was twelve?" Danny offered, wanting to chase away the sadness behind her eyes. The possibility of a smile flitted across Bass's face and she peeled the ice pack away from her knuckles again to look at the damage.

"How about pizza and bad TV instead?" she countered, flexing her fingers slowly, making the damaged skin stretch obscenely over her tendons and bones, a blank expression on her face. Danny looked away and when he looked back, Bass was back, settled under her skin where that other being had been just seconds ago. It didn't frighten him, this new Bass with her sharp temper and prickliness, but he was certainly the exception to the rule.

His mother would flip her shit if she knew he had Bass in the house when no one else was home.

"Deal; double pepperoni?" he asked, headed for the stairs to retrieve his phone. Bass nodded absentmindedly, staring out into the living room. Danny mounted the stairs slowly, hoping that when he came back downstairs, Bass would be more herself rather than the ghost she'd been for the last three years.

* * *

"You look like you want to pick a fight," the woman sitting at the end of the bar turned to look at him with a flirtatious smile and Will Strausser wondered, not for the first time, what kissing Bass Monroe would be like. He'd always imagined it would be like trying to take on a violent force of nature, beautiful and destructive and completely ambivalent to the damage it caused.

"And what if I do, Sergeant? Are you gonna write me up or help me out?" it was an innocent question, delivered in a manner that would have had a goddamn priest questioning his commitment to God, all heavy-lidded blue eyes and full red lips. A raised hand signaled the bartender for a drink as Will slid onto the barstool next to Bass, the two of them sequestered away from the other patrons. The glass in her hand was empty, but the sparkle in her eyes told him that she'd had a good two or three drinks before he'd arrived.

"Heard you guys caught a bad one today," Bass said, rolling her empty glass on the bar with her fingertips. Her right hand was bandaged, snowy white against the dark wood of the bar. He'd seen the hole in the interview room wall and Will fought back the urge to touch, to peel back the bandages and see what kind of damage the perpetually reckless woman had done now. Instead, he said.

"Murder-suicide, husband on wife; we made entry about an hour too late," his drink arrived with little fanfare and Will watched, amused as Bass leaned over the bar and snagged the bartender's wrist with one finger, batting her big blue eyes. Anyone else would have been shaken off, maybe tossed out. Bass got a lingering look and the brush of fingers as her glass was refilled, a smirk tracing the outline of her lips.

"No Miles or Jeremy tonight?" Will asked when the bartender was done throwing himself at a door that would never open and watched her eyes darken.

"Does everyone think I'm that dangerous? That I need constant supervision?" her question was straightforward, her tone anything but.

"Have you met you?" Will asked incredulously, his own whiskey raised to his mouth. Bass snorted, one hand picking at the white bandage on the other. It would have been wrong to call her cute, but he couldn't think of another word to describe the pouting happening in front of him.

"The first time we met you told me I was an idiot in front of my entire team," Will said, lips twitching at the memory. It was the first time a woman had ever spoken to him like that and it had taken days for the sting to wear off. Bass had never apologized either, but the next time he and his team had been assigned to the Narcotics Unit for a raid, she'd singled him out as her go between, something about bad blood between her and their team leader.

"To be fair, your team did kick down the wrong apartment door and we lost four kilos of heroin." Bass replied, eyebrow arched condescendingly even as a smile played about her mouth. Will returned it with an eyebrow of his own. The act lasted for approximately five seconds before she laughed, sudden and musical, shaking her head.

"Okay, okay, my CI gave us shitty information. There, happy?" she asked over the top of her whiskey. Will toasted his beer towards her before taking a pull. Comfortable silence settled over the two of them.

"Everything all good here?" the bartender was back, GQ handsome with his tight t-shirt and bedhead hair. Bass took a swallow of her whiskey, eyes locked with the other man and then chased an errant drop of the alcohol with her tongue. It was a game that Will had seen before and he settled back on his barstool, keeping out of the sway of her influence, just to be on the safe side.

"You're new," she said by way of an opening, eyes flicking over the younger man in front of her, an apex predator surveying her unsuspecting prey.

"Just started last night," the GQ model responded, leaning one elbow on the bar. Bass smiled over the rim of her whiskey, slow and honeyed and Will knew the bartender had just been ensnared, simple as that.

"Bass," the unbandaged hand was held out, grasped gently, more lingering touches and Will fought the urge to roll his eyes. He'd heard the rumors of Bass's behavior when undercover, but seeing it in person was something else entirely.

"Eric," the bartender said, grinning widely. Someone from down the bar called the man and with one last desperate look, Eric walked away. Smug didn't even begin to describe the expression on Bass's face as she took another sip of whiskey. She shrugged when she caught Will's gaze as if to say 'what?'

"You don't have to go looking for trouble, Bass." Abruptly, the smoldering temptress vanished, half-tipsy Bass settling back onto her stool, swaying a little as she did. Will automatically pressed a hand to her back, her skin warm under her t-shirt.

"But I like looking for trouble," Bass replied softly, Will's palm flattening further across her back as she leaned into his touch. Her reaction was almost automatic as if the only thing a person had to do was touch gently to earn her acquiescence.

"Oh and you do it so well," Will blinked, jerking his hand back in surprise as a muscular arm intruded between the two of them, plucking the whiskey from Bass's grasp with ease. Jeremy Baker nodded at Will before turning back to Bass who leaned into the arm around her shoulders and grinned up at the blonde man.

"Hey, pretty girl; you ready to go home?" Jeremy asked, already sweeping up Bass's wallet with his free hand and pulling the woman off the barstool with experienced ease. Will had been dismissed without a second thought and there he sat, watching Bass walk out the door with Jeremy while Will watched, hand clenched tight around his glass.

* * *

The workday ended two hours later than it should have, leaving Miles pulling into the driveway at 11:30, exhausted and sore. The house was dark and quiet and Miles resigned himself to dinner alone and then fitting himself into the mass of sprawled limbs that was Jeremy and Bass. It was a pleasant surprise to see the French doors open and Jeremy sitting out on the back deck, an open beer next to him.

Tossing his jacket and briefcase on the couch, Miles walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer of his own before joining the other man outside. A few steps onto the deck and Miles stopped, something warm but inexplicably sad blossoming in his chest. Bass had fallen asleep on the grass in front of Jeremy, curled between his legs, her head pillowed on the blonde man's thigh. One of Jeremy's hands was buried in the woman's curls as he stared out into the darkness.

"How drunk was she?" Miles asked quietly as he settled next to Jeremy, the two pressed together in a line from shoulder to hip. Bass stirred at his entrance, but didn't wake, not even when Miles reached out, stroking the back of his fingers against her cheek. Jeremy didn't reply, still staring blindly ahead. It wasn't physically possible, but it looked like the man had aged over the course of the day, the lines more pronounced around his eyes and mouth.

"Hey," Miles gently bumped his shoulder against Jeremy's and was treated with a surprised flash of blue eyes as the man snapped back from wherever his thoughts had been holding him. The last thing Miles expected to see was a faint sheen of tears in his lover's eyes. Startled, Miles dropped his unopened beer into the grass, cupped Jeremy's face in his hands and pressed their mouths together, offering comfort. There was desperation in Jeremy's kiss, his hands grasping the front of Miles' dress shirt as if seeking an anchor, Jeremy's hair shower damp under Miles' fingers. Miles tilted his head, let Jeremy take what he needed, the slide of lips more frantic than ever until it abruptly gentled, Jeremy's tongue flicking apologetically over the places where he'd nipped a little too sharply. Miles was breathing heavily when Jeremy pulled away, both men flushed.

"Sorry," Jeremy muttered, looking a little embarrassed at his actions, one shoulder arching up with a kind of shyness that Miles hadn't seen for years. Bass stirred between his legs, shifting around with a whimper and Jeremy leaned down, whispering something softly, his right hand resuming the gentle caress of her curls. A flash of white caught Miles' attention and he leaned down to see a fresh bandage wrapped snuggly around Bass's left hand, evidence of some sort of misdeed occurring during the day.

"What'd she do?" Miles asked, grabbing his beer and cracking it open with the lighter that rested on the deck next to Jeremy's beer. The cold brew slid easily down his throat, Jeremy a warm line of heat at his side. He hadn't seen Bass since she'd so coldly dismissed him in Tom's office earlier, the line of her spine rigid under her shirt.

"Ask the wall in Interrogation 3. Not sure how, but it pissed her off pretty good." Jeremy said, straightening up, that lost expression not quite gone from his face. Miles wanted it gone, needed it gone because it was identical to the expression that Bass wore all the time now and god, he just couldn't handle that, both of them so far away even when they were right by his side.

"Okay," Miles replied because it wasn't the first time Bass had lost her spectacularly violent temper and taken it out on an inanimate object. The bathroom wall still held the impression of her fist from her first day back at work after the accident. They'd just replaced the mirror. "You gonna tell me what that kiss was about?"

"I can't be excited to see you after a long day?" Jeremy joked weakly, avoiding Miles' gaze as he reached for his beer. Miles grabbed his wrist, gentle, but enough to impede movement. Jeremy finally met his gaze, nervous which wasn't like the other man at all.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore, Miles," the words felt like a physical blow, something that would leave a spectacular bruise in the morning. Miles blinked, his grip on Jeremy's hand loosening.

"Jer, I don't… why?" It was the only word that Miles could convince his mouth to form, betrayal and fear battling for dominance inside him. Jeremy exhaled heavily, twisted his hand around until their fingers interlaced.

"Bass…"Jeremy trailed off, his thumb idly stroking along Miles' fingers, freeing his hand from Bass's curls to scrub at his forehead. Miles waited, patience waning at the unusual reluctance of his lover. In the end, Jeremy was saved by a quiet voice from their feet.

"You want to leave because of me," Miles looked down just in time to watch Bass scoot away from Jeremy to face them both, stretching her long legs out in front of her, propping herself on her elbows.

"I don't want to leave, Bass, but I'm not going to here and watch you destroy yourself again." Jeremy snapped, his hand suddenly tightening on Miles. It was like watching a tennis match, only the players were bandying something unknown between them and Miles was in the dark.

"Will someone tell me what the hell is going on here?" Miles snapped, fear forming a sharp knot in the pit of his stomach. Bass cocked her head to the side, staring expectantly at Jeremy.

"Because Randall Flynn is back in town and Bass is on a suicide mission." Jeremy replied, not looking away from Bass whose face was inscrutable, her curls swaying in the slight breeze, the white bandage on her hand almost glowing in the moonlight. Miles recognized the sight of a determined Bass, years of experience granting him that knowledge, knew that anything he said would be taken as a challenge or an edict and that neither one worked when dealing with Bass. So he did the only thing he could think of.

"I'm going to bed," Miles pulled his hand free from Jeremy, stood and walked into the house. Jeremy joined him not soon after, slipping into the cool sheets behind him and throwing an arm around his waist, spooning up behind him.

Miles didn't say anything about the suspicious dampness against his skin or the soft hitch of Jeremy's breath for the first few minutes, but he lay there awake for hours after the other man had fallen asleep, waiting for Bass to come to bed. She didn't.


End file.
